Wilful Misconduct
by papercrimes
Summary: In the aftermath of an unauthorised undercover mission being leaked to the public, two cops sharing a secret walk into a waiting room. [Set after 'Starstruck Victims', oneshot.]


**Notes** : Arching here as it's also on AO3. You can blame this on my dismay over Rollins finding out Dodds covered for her when it was too late.  
 **Pairings** : Can be read as platonic or flirty. I like the idea of Dodds/Rollins, though, so more obvious pieces may come in future.  
 **Warnings** : Nothing particular, but read at own risk anyway.

* * *

 **Wilful Misconduct**

Just in case Amanda Rollins had forgotten why she really didn't want to come here with the Sergeant, the receptionist's bright, obnoxious smile upon clocking Mike Dodds is enough to remind her.

Of course, she hadn't actually forgotten to begin with: the ride over here was awkward as hell, with stretches of silence and careful driving interrupted only by brief disagreements about directions. At least they'll have an interview to discuss on the way back, if the elusive banker they're here to see co-operates.

It's technically a missing persons case, but a little more departmental discretion is in order when one of the last people seen with bartender Paulina Junkins is married, middle-aged Barry Dean. By all accounts, he's prestigious within his company – respected by that affluent blend of New York's worst and finest, so it shouldn't really surprise Amanda at all that the staff around here recognise the son of good ol' William Dodds.

Of course there was a reason Mike had wanted to come.

"Michael," the receptionist says, through that warm smile of hers, leaning a bit over the glass desk that occupies the lobby's centre. This whole building's interior is a nightmare of whites and blues, more reminiscent of a pharmaceutical office – but hey, at least this plump, sensibly-dressed woman loans a deceptively friendly face to modern finance.

Mechanically polite, Mike replies, "Good morning," – and even though Amanda knows what's happening here, relegated to the sidelines by just standing beside her Sergeant (mechanically polite), she's in no mood to wait through a barrage of small talk. She doesn't speak, but she does fire an urging glance up to him; he must see her from the corner of his eye.

"We're looking for Barry," he says, without letting the receptionist emit another word from her pursed lips. "Couldn't reach him at home, but we figured he'd be working today – have you seen him?"

"Oh – yes – Mr. Dean arrived an hour ago," she says, withdrawing slightly. "He's in a meeting at the moment, but I'm sure that if I tell him William's son dropped by–"

Still on her very best behaviour, Amanda says nothing; she emits the slightest sound, though, a sharp exhale just a touch too truncated to be a sigh. This time she does feel Mike glance at her, and he interrupts the receptionist again, apparently empowered.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid. I'm here on police business – with my colleague, Detective Rollins."

That last part is lip-service, Amanda thinks: an afterthought. There's something one part amusing and two parts irritating about the way Mike briefly gestures to her – like he's being gracious enough to bestow importance upon her. Of course, she knows he probably doesn't see it that way.

"I see," the lady replies. She sounds wary enough, anyway, her gaze shifting slowly from Mike to Amanda, and back again. "Is this... urgent?"

At a question like that, Amanda can only think about getting back to the precinct. She's aware Dean is just going to continue his elusive act, so the sooner they get his bogus statement, the sooner they can start pursuing other avenues – and the sooner she can work independently of Dodds.

It's not that she minds him; not really. He doesn't ramble on like Carisi, and he doesn't subject Amanda to heavy metal while driving like Fin does... but Jesse was in no mood to let her sleep last night, and she subsequently doesn't have the patience for matching the meticulous by-the-book stylings of a man whose wardrobe probably only consists of suits.

So she's about to break rank to insist, it's urgent, when Mike again becomes Mister Obliging right under her nose.

"We can wait," he says – and he nudges a thumb over his shoulder. Amanda follows the gesture by turning her head, only to spy an assortment of low-level sofas, all gathered around another glass table. "Can I ask how long he's going to be?"

"No longer than fifteen minutes," says the receptionist, audibly relaxing. "I'll send a message through for you now."

"Thanks," Mike says – and the woman flashes a final smile before she turns away in her chair.

The need to put on a united front guides Amanda away from the front desk, falling into hurried step beside Mike when he begins making his way towards the waiting area. She can hardly bicker openly while they're in public, so it's only when she's certain they're out of earshot that she presses her hand insistently to his forearm.

He doesn't stop walking, at first, but he looks at her. His expression is blank; in his mind, there must be no issue with giving horndog bankers special treatment.

"What the hell, Sergeant?" Amanda says, irritated, and to her credit it's not quite a hiss. Mike looks almost startled, though, raising his brows at her mid-step, so she tacks on for good measure, "With all due respect."

"Look," Mike says. He airily lifts a hand between them: flat, a gesture of appeasement, or pacifying. "I know this guy, all right?" Judging by what Mike adds next, Amanda, too expressive for her own good, must look incredulous. "I know guys like him. If he thinks it's not so critical that we can't wait, he won't panic. He'll be receptive."

"We have other things to get done today—"

"—and I appreciate that, which is why I made sure it's just fifteen minutes."

He speaks with an air of finality, so it surprises her a little that he just keeps standing there. Waiting, almost, for further dissent – but Amanda has to concede there's a chance this'll pay off. Only tipping her head forward in recognition, she lets him have the last word.

Adjusting his jacket around him, Mike goes to take one end of the nearest sofa; Amanda sinks onto the opposite end, instinctively crossing one leg over the other. It eases the faintest cramp in her stomach – she really should've eaten something more substantial than granola bars this morning.

The coffee table is host to neat stacks of pamphlets advertising this bank's array of services. Briefly, Amanda regards them, yet none secure her interest, which is why she takes to bouncing her foot while Mike finally sits down.

"So you know this guy," she says – careful to avoid any particular inflection. It's merely a statement of fact, but she knows how defensive he gets over implications of nepotism; the sarge doth protest too much, methinks.

"I know of him. And I know this isn't the first woman he's been seeing on the side."

"Your father likes him?"

"Not exactly." Mike wrinkles his nose, only for a second. "Hasn't said anything, anyway. I just keep in touch with his son – we enlisted at the same time."

Huh. That's news to her, even if it's nowhere near a revelation. She's extending more concentration to finding a steady rhythm for her foot, but this is a way to kill fifteen minutes.

There's curiosity in her tone when she speaks, if kept to a minimum.

"You were in the army?"

The first response she receives from Mike is a shrug, which is unsurprising – if also unilluminating. She knows Fin has seen the underbelly of war, too, and after living through the most mortal kind of living Hell, it's grotesquely predictable that men like them would join the police.

"Special Forces."

"That your idea?"

"What can I say? 2001 was a great year for recruitment."

That isn't really an answer, either, though at least a pattern is beginning to emerge. She has more questions on the tip of her tongue: not because she finds the army particularly interesting (recruiters are commonplace in the department-store parking lots of Loganville) , but because this is new– from Mike, that is. A conversation that she couldn't get from the policing handbook already.

Still, if the way he's reaching for a pamphlet means anything, this isn't a topic he wants to discuss in detail. She has her own theory about why veterans become cops, after all, and it isn't because they crave that discipline. Opting not to pry, she simply emits a small hum of acknowledgement.

And then she's back to not knowing what to say, eyes drifting towards the clock. Time was, civilians wouldn't dare leave the NYPD stewing in their lobby, but she doubts corporate hotshots spare the slightest thought to how damn dire it is to leave two cops alone with nothing but the job in common.

Amanda is just beginning to search for something – anything – to say next, when she finds she doesn't have to.

"What about you?"

"'Scuse me?"

"What about you? Before you came to New York."

Pressing some leaflet on travel benefits to his knee, Mike spares a glance towards her. Brief, and he has the decency not to linger, but his eyes seek hers so surely that she's almost convinced there's legitimate interest behind his inquiry. (Must be something he picked up from his father.)

"Not much of a story," she says. Her smile is guarded. "Joined the force back in Georgia straight out of college."

"Whereabouts?"

"Atlanta."

"Oh," he says, illuminated, and he looks at her again – this time just a little longer than a glance.

It takes her a moment to realise why that detail matters to him – but when said moment passes, Occam's razor comes to mind. Of course his dad was the one to deal with Patton; Chief Dodds was all over that case like a bureaucratic odour. Whatever Mike's heard, it's still far more than Rollins is comfortable with him knowing – and there comes that surge of irritation again, the faintest bite of it in the pit of her stomach. (Or maybe that's just the hunger pangs, but it makes her feel slightly better to blame it on him.)

Even so, now that it's Mike's turn not to pry, he doesn't. He simply gives a curt nod, leaning back into the sofa that's too trendy to be comfortable.

So much for small talk. She'd rather not let her uncharitable mind keep chewing over what's waiting for her back at the precinct: phone calls, and plenty of them. Questioning surveillance offices, seeking known associates of Junkins, chasing updates on the all-points bulletin...

Distantly, Amanda is aware of Mike saying something, and unless he's a mind-reader now, it's probably not additional lamentation on desk duties. Turning her head, her foot falls still, and with it the gentle slap of her shoe against her heel.

"Huh?"

"I only asked – how's Jesse doing?"

She stares at him. He's really addressing her, now, gaze levelled towards her. The rest of him is still turned away, though, the pamphlet he'd been fiddling with discarded in favour of putting his hands to use, idly smoothing the fabric around his knees.

Her arms, folded at her waist, tighten against her. She says nothing, at first – and then her mouth twists before she can stop it, an unreasonably large smile occupying her lips as the last line of defence she has against outright laughing.

"C'mon, Sarge. You don't really care about that."

"I do," he insists, visibly rattled. At least, his brows are up for another hot second. "I like kids."

Amanda says nothing, but she maintains her smile as she tips her head forward, just so. The kind of thing her mama used to do when she'd lied as a girl.

Mike's shoulders had apparently been drawn, because he visibly deflates, the corner of his mouth betraying a twitch of its own. "I mean it. I like them. That doesn't necessarily mean they like me, but..."

She does laugh, then. Not kindly, but not entirely at his expense, gazing briefly at her lap while something like a splutter of amusement breaches her lips. It isn't difficult to imagine kids responding negatively to the routine detachment of a guy like Dodds.

"Jesse's doing fine," she says, and that's usually where she'd leave it. He always has something offhandedly insensitive to say when the issue of childcare surfaces, pragmatic to the point of detriment – but after a restless night like last night, Amanda is more inclined to seize an opportunity to complain with her two tired hands. "Wish I could say the same thing about me."

The response she gets reminds her precisely why she avoids this kind of small talk with him. Mike looks concerned but it's for all the wrong reasons, brow predictably furrowing.

"But you aren't... struggling, are you? Is there something the Lieutenant should know about?"

"Nothing like that." She flashes a diplomatic smile his way. "I'm just... a little tired-" that's an understatement, "and anyway, Liv is the last person I'd bring my problems to right now."

She stresses that statement with a cluck of her tongue. Sure, maybe she sounds bitter, but can he blame her? It was this guy who walked in on the tail-end of their blows over the D'Amico affair, so whatever tirade Liv subjected him to over that leaked video can't have reflected very well on Rollins.

And she'd be naive if she thought that whole mess wasn't the biggest wedge between her and Mike, too. He didn't declare himself an accomplice, exactly, but he did accept the accusation without saving his own skin like he could've – though, she can't help being irritated all over again whenever she thinks about how he followed her that night to begin with.

Maybe he's just less straightforward than she'd prefer to believe.

If his foray into tensing up again is anything to go by, he can tell what she's thinking, currently. He sweeps a hand absent-mindedly along his jaw, and she expects him to say something: to change the subject, or to chastise her for even alluding to an event he's been not-so-subtly trying to forget about. What comes out of his mouth is nothing like that.

"She cares about you."

"Uh-huh," she says. Mike's expression is ambiguously stern, so she plays it by ear. "I guess."

"I mean it. Whatever professional issues you might have – she's made it clear she's on board with your personal decisions."

Amanda purses her lips. "You suggesting you're not, Sergeant?"

"No, I – no. That isn't what I'm suggesting at all."

"Because it's not just Liv who had a professional issue, is it? You were pretty mad, too."

"I wasn't... mad," he says, carefully. "And look, I'm trying to put all that behind us."

His pacifying hand is back (or maybe it's more of a defensive gesture by this point). Regardless, her persistent desire to just get out of here, preferably in one piece, dampens any desire she has to be belligerent.

"So am I," is all she says, and she smiles again. Coy.

He grimaces, but he doesn't elaborate. His elevated hand cards through his hair instead, slowly, and she doesn't miss the way his eyes glance towards the clock.

If she was with Cragen, or even Munch, to some extent, she knows being this brazen about anything wouldn't fly. But Mike is the kind of commanding officer who makes insubordination so easy, even if she's aware she's pushing it just a little more than she should. And she can't deny he has a point.

Since he joined the Unit, she's never really seen him mad – the closest he's come to that is raving about his own insecurities – and she's seen him disenchanted, poring over photographs of other missing girls who never show up breathing, but he doesn't talk about it.

He just acts, and he wears the rationale of every calculated move on his sleeve – but not his motivations, the deeper meaning people like Rollins draw from what they feel. There has to be a reason he thought of Jesse, deviating from discussing the job they have in common to the kid they've argued over before. There has to be a reason, she muses, behind why he's building bridges on Liv's behalf when he really doesn't have to, because Amanda knows her Lieutenant well enough to figure Liv would hate thinking of Dodds as an efficient peacemaker at all.

She's got this far, so where's the harm in some more insubordination?

"This," she says, channelling her mood into a disarming smile, "is difficult for you, isn't it?"

Measuredly, suspiciously, he resumes regarding her, scanning her face as though to feel out the angle she's deciding to play from this time. When he finds her smiling, he mirrors it with restraint, and there's something a little grateful about it too.

"What is? Not upsetting my co-workers?"

"No. All this." She vacantly waves a hand. "SVU. The way it operates."

Getting personally involved in his work for once, she thinks, but doesn't say it.

"It's nothing like anti-crime," he says, curtly, no longer inviting. Even if he doesn't really get mad, this is a deviation from his cordial baseline. "There, the trick was to be proactive. To stop undesirable things before they could happen. But here, it's all about the aftermath, and – it's starting to bother me. How many of these scumbags are people I know."

He leans forward with nervous energy, again adjusting the hem of his suit jacket, and she realises he's returned to being staunchly against looking at her. The pauses he'd spoken with are not the kind simply borne from choosing words carefully. When he gestures to the lobby before them, to illustrate his point, his movement stutters, wavering. This isn't tact; it's hesitation.

Huh. Maybe it's because she's pretty good at paying him very little heed, yet Rollins never really notices how rarely that shortcoming emerges until Mike is suddenly, sharply unsure of himself – mostly, granted, around Benson. Those passing allegations of nepotism are a downside she can understand, but Mike's connections in New York's elite are an investigator's dream. She'd never really considered the possibility SVU would make him question everything he knows.

"You know the part I really find difficult?" he goes on, peering sharply over his shoulder.

She's taken aback – this sounds like they're wandering into personal territory – though she presses her hand to her mouth and stays silent, observing him intently as an invitation for him to continue.

"How you and the Lieutenant can do this with kids – and I mean that with the greatest of respect, but I can't imagine the strain that must be. Knowing what kind of people are out there is one thing, but pursuing them? Knowing they could be anybody?" A grimace washes over his expression, a visual does-not-compute, though he only lets her see it for a second. "Trusting anyone after this – that's the difficult part."

These are the words of a tortured guy, so Amanda conceals the entirely inappropriate smile blossoming on her lips by keeping her knuckles pressed there. It's funny: this all reminds her of something she said to Liv, when she first started. It must be the typical thought process a place like SVU inspires, for better or worse. She'd offer him an answer, but she hasn't really found one yet.

She does, at least, find herself feeling more forgiving. Maybe he only fears motherhood affecting job performances because he can't fathom why any woman would work SVU with a child in tow. That's an argument to have with him later, but if he's making his own observations now... he's not entirely on the wrong track.

Disappointingly, he doesn't appear eager to divulge anything else, but she gets the feeling this isn't exactly something he's been desperate to tell Liv, or Carisi, or even his father. Why he's choosing to tell her, she doesn't know – though she can guess. If she's been thinking of them as partners in crime, there's a chance he feels the same way. Both keeping secrets for the same kind of justice.

"Thank you," she says, quietly.

It's partly to break the silence, its smothering discomfort threatening to engulf them again, and her mood has softened enough from its petty high for that to seem an unattractive concept. But it's mostly because he deserves to be thanked.

"For what?" he asks – or demands. He turns so sharply to look at her that she's almost startled, and what's more is, he finally shifts in his seat to do it. She's suddenly so much more aware of what it's really like to have him watching her: scrutinising, befitting a soldier stood to attention. So Mister Obliging can play Sergeant Stripes when he wants to.

"For not ratting me out to Liv," she says, feeling amused. Curious, too; what the hell did he think she was thanking him for? "I know you think it's because she's a friend, but she also isn't the type to pull punches. The only reason she didn't give me a way harder time is because you kept out of it – and she probably knows it wasn't your idea, but she won't push you to give me up. Whatever it is about you, she wants to keep you on side."

Mike straightens up. He smooths down his tie, also, eyes flickering away from her in the only gesture of embarrassment he allows to register.

"I see. You – don't have to thank me." He smiles, wryly. "You were hard enough on me to make up for it."

She smiles back, tipping her hair jauntily over her shoulder. She's not going to apologise (she's far too proud for that), but she'll at least accept him making a dig about it – and her smile is the type that comes perfectly naturally, in no hurry to go anywhere. It's... reassuring, to bask in the formation of a wordless agreement, and she's pretty sure he's acknowledging the same thing.

They don't have time to say anything else, anyway, because that anomalous receptionist is calling for Michael, pressing her desk's phone against her shoulder. Mike looks to her, automatic, and rises to his feet, moving with the apparent expectation that Amanda will follow.

Deciding to keep her sighs to herself for now, she does just that.

It feels like there's a weighted glass shard through the phone in her pocket, and she knows that's because it contains a photograph of Junkins. The banker will no doubt recognise her, then pretend he doesn't. There are some parts of the job she's numb to, but not this.

Truth be told, she doesn't understand Mike's preference for guesswork: at least when there's a body, the cops investigating it aren't in a state of flux. A conclusion, for all the good it does, eliminates the sickly ache of false hope.

Thinking of pain only reminds Amanda that she's famished, and while the receptionist regales Mike with directions to Dean's office, she mentally lists all the eateries nearby. She has plenty of work waiting for her back at the precinct, and she had been set on travelling back there immediately after this dead-end interrogation, but – maybe the sarge wouldn't mind taking a detour to swing by some sandwich place. Maybe he'd appreciate the opportunity to chow down on something, too.

Maybe he's just not the kind of guy who can say no to a little insubordination.


End file.
